MRS. ALVING. [Springs up.] It's not true, Oswald! It's impossible! It
cannot be so!
OSWALD. I have had one attack down there already. It was soon over. But
when I came to know the state I had been in, then the dread descended
upon me, raging and ravening; and so I set off home to you as fast as I
could.
MRS. ALVING. Then this is the dread--!
OSWALD. Yes--it's so indescribably loathsome, you know. Oh, if it
had only been an ordinary mortal disease--! For I'm not so afraid of
death--though I should like to live as long as I can.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must!
OSWALD. But this is so unutterably loathsome. To become a little baby
again! To have to be fed! To have to--Oh, it's not to be spoken of!
MRS. ALVING. The child has his mother to nurse him.
OSWALD. [Springs up.] No, never that! That is just what I will not have.
I can't endure to think that perhaps I should lie in that state for many
years--and get old and grey. And in the meantime you might die and
leave me. [Sits in MRS. ALVING'S chair.] For the doctor said it wouldn't
necessarily prove fatal at once. He called it a sort of softening of the
brain--or something like that. [Smiles sadly.] I think that expression
sounds so nice. It always sets me thinking of cherry-coloured
velvet--something soft and delicate to stroke.
MRS. ALVING. [Shrieks.] Oswald!
OSWALD. [Springs up and paces the room.] And now you have taken Regina
from me. If I could only have had her! She would have come to the
rescue, I know.
MRS. ALVING. [Goes to him.] What do you mean by that, my darling boy? Is
there any help in the world that I would not give you?
OSWALD. When I got over my attack in Paris, the doctor told me that when
it comes again--and it will come--there will be no more hope.